


the derelict soul

by intjavery



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intjavery/pseuds/intjavery
Summary: "If you could ask me about one thing, what would you ask me?""What are you hiding?""That's not one thing."-Everything about him was susurration.The contradiction was baffling: a carefree attitude in a life riddled with rumors, toxicity, and danger. Was his lavish lifestyle and resounding charisma what made him alluring, or was it the question mark that blocked his facial features from the public?Who was he really? Who was Blaire Sinclair?He was greater than a dumb name, reputable as it was, but the fables had to be false.They saw him as a wolf. He cast them all as the sheep. No one should get close. No one should trust him.What would happen if the wool pulled over everyone's eyes tore?





	1. cigarette smoke

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an original work that will be multiple chapters long.
> 
> It features my and my friend's original characters that are being written to revolve around the life of a troubled boy.
> 
> It was inspired by a joke of making a relationship in this a Netflix Original cliché, but I hope to bring an underlying sentiment of seriousness to the dark subjects, occasional edge, and real-world traumas that will be included in this story.
> 
> I am trying to make this as general as possible, as this originates from a set-plot in a roleplay, but if it still remains confusing, I apologize.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“Yeah,” was the even-tempered reply of a poised man sitting on the curb of a street that was just too plain for his veneer. He had replied it to a question he had not really listened to.

A tiny cloud of air formed in front of his mouth at the mere word, but the heat of his breath tickled his lips. The temperature didn’t feel freezing to him, but he could understand the loud complaints of his posse criticizing the below-temperature. To stay warm, he kept his hands tucked into the pockets of a black double-breasted coat, appreciating the way it hugged his torso and kept his body heat pressed to himself. Most notable was the classic camel check scarf, iconic to the  _ Burberry _ fashion, that wrapped around his neck, his chin barely above.

The animated chatter around him was otherwise grating on his ears, but he was unable to shut off the world and retreat to his head, as he heard others were capable of doing. He wasn’t sure how; the world had never been a dream to him.

Instead, he was fully engulfed in the present. His mind never let him feel what never was.

He took from what was around him. His ability to function depended on it.

When people moved, his eyes followed. They snapped and they scanned and they read. It was like playing a game of poker. He noticed things he wish he didn’t: mustard stains on khaki, a name pronounced with a little unorthodox emphasis, a lag in a step, which he sought more answer to - was it an injury, a tick, how could he use this, when could he use this, did it remind him of anything? And a face… he was sure he never did forget a face.

The constant stream of senses was  _ overwhelming. _

When the group began to disperse, he could easily tell who had left and who had stayed, despite it being originally over twenty people. That was how his social outings typically went; a cluster of people wanting to stand around and smoke, talking about nothing, and sometimes convincing each other life was worth living another day for. It sounded more offbeat and gritty than it really was, but he had to admit they were at this prime where purpose was questionable.

The cheap laughs were so poor by now, maybe he could step into the Bronx and not get mugged, he thought dryly. Exhibit A.

Compared to their high school days, it was an improvement. A marginal one, but nonetheless. He could remember the shallowness of their personalities. Most had no hobbies other than envying each other, their faces were stuck in these grimacing expressions, their voices were placed on a laughing track, and then there was the way they fed off of misery of teenage angst like leeches. There were still too many people he never cared about that he spent his weekends with anyway, and each weekend there was a stale layer of boredom that covered each of their visions like a fog, perhaps represented by the smoke clouds made themselves.

He was always aware, though. Since he was nine, he opened his eyes to the world, and saw everything.

As more people left, he eventually found himself with less than half a dozen of the group. The curb he sat on was in a neighborhood in South Jamaica, Queens. Snow was gathered around the soles of his black combat boots, with, one could guess, black jeans tucked comfortable past the tongues and laces. Apart from his fashion choices of the day, the setting was horribly black and white. It was as if the working-class neighborhood had never made it out of the slums. Dirty snow had been trekked through enough that no one footprint could be made out in the pathway. In the crooks and nannies there hid garbage that had been sitting long before the current season had started. Graffiti brought some color to the scene, and could be seen on random parts of the block; against stairwells, brick areas, and posts and signs. Else, the dilapidation of the buildings were just another coating of lifelessness.

“We’re going to head out,” said a stout man, with a mean look and questionable smell. His name was Eli Kennith. The man on the curb turned his head to glance at his friend, whose hand was snaked around a love handle of his girlfriend, Sasha Powell. Eli’s head was tilted in a way that reminded him of a dog, and his lip was raised ever-so-slightly that he could see a tooth and gum above it. Maybe a pitbull then. It beat him if his expressions were intentional or that was just his face, but he couldn’t help but smirk a bit.

“Have fun,” he answered simply, yet somewhat knowingly. Eli and Sasha were two peas in a pod since high school, back when the former beat up a group of boys picking on her for eating so much in-between classes and during lunch. It turned out Eli liked eating just as much, and they were less possessive over food when they were sharing it with each other. Or something like that? He wasn’t sure either.

Besides, Eli wasn’t the most Prince Charming at the school, so if he wanted a girl with curves and thick everything, more power to him, he thought.

Sasha wasn’t trouble, either. He didn’t think he could hold conversations with her by themselves, but he didn’t have a lot to complain about otherwise. If he could be a little honest, he did think she was boring. Spontaneous at most. One of those weird humors everyone got the joke to, but no one was sure why it was still not funny and lost its comedic effect already.

“Are you staying out?” Sasha asked, her head leaning against the front of Eli’s shoulder slightly. It took the sitting man a moment to reply, drawing a cigarette out of his pocket, lighter out of the other.

Before lighting, he looked back over at the pair. He didn’t want to say he didn’t really have anywhere to be, or that his house wasn’t where he wanted to be, so he only nodded in answer.

He would stay out as long as possible, whether or not people were with him.

To go home now would be an early retirement of the day. He knew his dad was sitting at home, probably with some sort of take-out.

So Sasha said “bye” and gave small waves to the three of us left, then she and Eli waddled off.

Before putting the cigarette to his mouth, he couldn’t help but do a nostril-blow of a laugh at how they looked together. Eli’s shaved head casted no illusion he was taller than he actually was, and Sasha’s high ponytail flying left and right was like an actual horse’s.

Eli seemed reminiscent of D.C.’s Captain Cold, who also sported a parka, which wasn’t too far off of Eli’s own winter coat with trim fur. All he needed was black goggles, and then he could verily point a freeze gun. Eventually, the two disappeared around the corner at the end of the block, and the fading crunch of snow turned to an austere silence, bar the off-sounds of traffic in the city.

“I don’t really like her,” came a honeyed voice from behind after a little bit. The man wasn’t sure if Brooke Rhodes was speaking to him or Jayson Trevis.

“That was delayed,” he quipped in a dead-end tone, but Jayson gave a more substantial reply.

“She’s okay.”

Well, substantial enough for Brooke to continue off of. The man almost sighed, but instead took a few puffs of his cigarette. He didn’t bother to look behind him, but he was confident Brooke was playing with her chestnut hair in  _ some _ way, and Jayson was shifting his weight from leg to leg, maybe wanting to suggest something new to do so he didn’t need to discuss Eli’s girlfriend. In addition to not wanting to change a conversation topic that had just begun. There was no point in regretting saying something. It would be a bit weird to not say  _ anything _ .

He did his best to tune it out, but again, he never could turn off the world.

“... Plus she snapped at me for asking if she has diabetes.”

Instinctively, his face scrunched. He could feel his eyebrows furrowing together, eyes rolling, only thankful they were both behind him.

“Why?” Jayson replied. The man was willing to bet he was keeping a straight face, too.

“I don’t know. She gets an attitude if you-”

“No, why did you ask her if she had diabetes?”

_ Exhale. _

Smoke blew out of his nose and his face relaxed, feeling like a bag in his chest had been pressed down on. He opened his jaw to let the rest escape his lungs in a soothing habit.

“Because my uncle has it, and he has to use this little thing - I don’t know what it’s called, but looks like a pregnancy test - and he has to poke his finger with a needle. Then he pushes blood out onto a strip that goes in it, and it measures the sugar in his blood. He tells me to eat well, or I can end up like him.”

Jayson made a small  _ oh _ noise of understanding, and maybe the seated man would have made it, too, if he weren’t preoccupied. It was just a prime example of who Brooke was. Stupid. She asked questions that came off as a typical mean girl, when really she just didn’t fucking think.

“Glucose monitor?” the man on the ground said finally, turning himself around to put his feet on the sidewalk and watch them on his left.

Indeed, Brooke was repeatedly running a hand through the top of her hair, ruffling the side-sweeping fringe, like hipsters had. Beside her, Jayson kept both of his hands on his phone that was held sideways, screen toward himself. He looked underdressed in a sweatjacket for the weather, but that wasn’t the man’s concern nor care.

“I think so,” Brooke said, somewhat slowly, evidently contemplative of a time those words were used, and feeling they were correct enough. “He says to me all of the time, ‘It was the cake.’ So when I see Sasha eating all those chocolates and desserts, it makes me think of him.”

Fair enough? The man flicked some ashes onto the street pavement, watching Jayson shrug in his spot. He glanced upwards, wondering if it were going to snow while they were out, and if it would be a good idea to get indoors.

A quietness settled in once again, driving him just a bit crazy. Just a bit. He arched a leg up and switched his cigarette between hands, before resting an elbow on his knee.

“Is he doing well?”

What the fuck, Jayson?

Even though he didn’t like the silence, he didn’t want that topic. He tried not to sigh hearing it pick up again anyway; probably Jayson just being a nice guy. Not that he was typically, but one could say that he was disciplined. Otherwise, he could be snarky, defiant, and a downright asshole. Especially through provoking.

Also, it was Brooke.

Him and Brooke were highschool sweethearts. Back then, Jayson’s life had been going pretty well with a girlfriend, dependable friends, a part-time stocking job at a warehouse, and above par grades. He did well blocking off his mom’s affair with her boss, which the man remembered helping him take care of two years back. But maybe it got too close to comfort.

Despite the things the man said, the distance he put, he thought maybe Jayson would never leave.

Did he take full-responsibility for the ‘Jooke’ relationship that formed? Well, he left them alone a handful of times, and soon they were giving each other the attention they both craved from the man. When they could go to a movie theater without him, he knew the rest was smooth sailing.

Though, maybe he was paranoid. Left-out. Jealous.

The fact they could both talk to him normally afterward, and think they were all even closer than ever…

It was nothing he wanted to talk about, but when he couldn’t fit a wedge between him and them, what would you do?

Of course he slept with his girlfriend.

The man had a big mouth, too. He couldn’t do something without announcing it. So he texted him afterward, sharing what they did. What he did. What he did to him.

That was two years ago. The process of how they overcame that was a blur in itself.

Now, they were Sophomores in college.

Maybe old habits died hard, but Jayson and Brooke still talked to each other in this unique way. They had their own inside jokes, which sometimes Jayson humored, sometimes he had a look of ‘yeah, that  _ was _ funny.’ He could poke fun at her slow moments, she could comfortably talk to him without needing to worry about if the guy was into her still. Somehow, it made their relationship even stronger than it was.

But whatever.

The man took a strong drag of the cigarette, his nose smelling it before he could taste it. It went through his nostrils and throat; that bag just inflated and inflated, until it hit the bottom of his lungs, and he held it, he held it, and held, and maybe if he stayed like this he could --

Like a delayed ricochet, his lungs burned to breathe out that toxic substance, and he obliged, letting it all flood out through his mouth, and-

“You okay?” he heard Jayson ask as he entered a fit of coughing. He felt a creeping sense of humiliation along the back of his neck, weighing enough for him to stare down as he tried to calm himself. It was embarrassing to take a cool-looking habit like smoking and fucking choke.

And for some reason, in that short moment, he thought about them getting back together, and how shitty that’d be.

After he was done, face warm and eyes watering slightly, he shook his head in dismissal. If it were Jayson coughing, he would have cracked a joke. Yet Jayson didn’t.

Would Jayson have said something if it were Eli? Call him an idiot, maybe?

He couldn’t think of a time Jayson called him an idiot.

Brooke and Jayson exchanged something about the man, but the latter only focused on sitting up straighter and putting his cigarette out. He began to get to his feet, shoes sliding and stopping against the snow matted between his soles and the cement. By the time he tuned back in, the topic had changed back to Eli and Sasha.

“I guess I didn’t expect them to last this long,” Jayson said in a confessional way, but he didn’t sound all too comfortable discussing his close friend. It wasn’t immediately noticeable in the friend group, but Jayson was one of the few that was cautious. He sometimes would engage in gossip and could even throw a nasty comment out himself, but it wasn’t anything he went out of his way to stir up.

Jayson was pretty level-headed. He didn’t feed the fire unless he needed to burn someone else. When provoked, he took some time to react. Maybe he was weighing his pros and cons, maybe he just didn’t care at all until he suddenly did, but in any case, he could take a lot of hits until he snapped. Even then, his snapping were building warnings, to maturely grabbing a superior, to straight up telling-off, and a favorite was when he would throw a punch.

The man could remember a time in high school when they had a friend in English that was distracting, and sometimes downright annoying. He would tap on Jayson’s shoulder during class and whisper a lame joke, didn’t do his own work and asked to see his, and eventually copied parts of his cool and collected demeanor. So of course Jayson eventually asked him to stop. When he got passive-aggressive about it, Jayson began to openly complain about it to others in the group.

The man smirked a bit, thinking at the time it was actually hilarious.

Still, it reached a point that the kid was at war with him and wouldn’t stop talking shit, acting tough about kicking his ass, and messaging random people about how fake he was so to not hang out with him anymore. Even though the man had done his fair-share of bullying, he gruffly knew he didn’t devote his entire pastime to harassing the same person. Hate everyone a little equally, you know?

Anyway, it did become a less funny situation, and he asked Jayson to let him talk to the idiot.

Jayson had said he didn’t need anyone to fight his battles for him, which was disappointing. He was sure he could get the guy to switch schools for Jayson. Instead, Jayson did a really nifty thing.

He waited.

He waited for teachers to notice, he waited for a student to speak up, he waited for the guy to fight him like he said he would. When none of it came, he waited for something better. He waited for a death threat. And it came, and when it did, Jayson screenshot his messages and posts, then showed them to his parents.

It wasn’t  _ that _ nifty, but the kid got suspended, went through hell in his own home, and had to actually  _ transfer _ because it held the school viable for violation of DASA, the Dignity for All Students Act.

All the smoking man could remember thinking by then was, ‘this is why I don’t say anything that can be screenshot.’

Although it was the  _ proper _ way to handle the situation, it wasn’t what he would have done. However, Jayson showed how it was more satisfying sometimes to wait and get the most out of a situation, rather than a five-minute humiliation.

It taught the man how to make longer plans. Ones to wait for.

That was how Jayson was across the board. He looked at the long-term satisfaction, not indulgent pleasures.

It made his interest in the man more shocking, didn’t it?

“I bet they’ll get married,” Brooke chirped, rubbing her hands together. In the same movement, she whined. “I’m really hungry.” Jayson let out a small laugh, though to which, the man didn’t know.

“That’ll be the day,” he said as he slid his phone into his jacket pocket, “and let’s go get something then.”

“Who would have thought Eli loved cooking, though,” the man finally said after his earlier fit. “Dinner? Dad probably has something made.”

“You’re going home?” Jayson asked, as if double-checking some fact. The man kept a relaxed face, but looked over him carefully as he replied.

“Yep. Going to miss me?”

“Well, me and Brooke can find something, so.” Beside him, Brooke nodded, and the man still had to wonder why Jayson decided to re-clarify his decision of going home. Sure, he didn’t want to go, but did he know that?

“Are there any food trucks still out?” she asked, but Jayson mentioned something about them mostly being taco and smoothie trucks.

“Just swing by 42nd street,” he said, waving his hand. The crosstown street in Manhattan was packed with theaters, restaurants, and shops.

God, why did he always do this? Why did he set them up for unofficial dates?

“Well, catch you tomorrow then,” Jayson said. The man tried to resist asking him why he invited himself into his Sunday-tomorrow. There was also the sensation of an unasked question on the tip of his tongue, but he gave a cordial smile to them both.

“Enjoy.”

“See you later,” Brooke called as she walked ahead in parts of the sidewalk with mushed down snow and footprints. Jayson started to follow, but he looked back at the man shortly, before waving in goodbye again.

The man forced a smile again.

“Byyye, Jayson.”

“Bye, Blaire.”


	2. red wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blaire?” he breathed, just like on the phone.  
> He said nothing.  
> “What the hell happened to you?”  
> Still nothing.  
> \--
> 
> After going home, Blaire was supposed to meet a friend of his father's. This wasn't the only thing he was arranged in.
> 
> Once hearing the expectations of the deal he was promised a role in, with no awareness until now, he is certain he should have stayed out after-all.
> 
> Of course, nothing goes according to plan, but that was just the sort of life he lived.

The microwave timer approached zero in what seemed longer than literally fifteen seconds. Blaire drummed his fingers on the granite counter impatiently, humming along lowly with the magnetron. As soon as the clock flashed ten, he impulsively hit the open button. Ten seconds wouldn’t change much.

It wasn’t that he was in a rush to sit down at dinner with his dad - or maybe he was, just so it would be over sooner - but when the latter was home, Blaire felt on edge.

After he nudged the microwave door shut with his elbow, he made his way over to the dining room with his plate, holding it by its edges.

Through the archway, he could immediately see his father’s haughty figure sitting upright in his dining chair. The room was the same used for important guests, parties, and holiday dinners. All the other times, it was just them.

From traditional to modern eyes, it had been said it was grandiose.

A high ceiling, a crystal chandelier above a glass table that could seat a dozen, white wainscoting halfway over each wall, complemented by a bold powder blue paint that would normally be considered gaudy (like the rest), but somehow made the room more royal together.

When Blaire passed through the archway, he better saw his dad perched in one of the end chairs. As if to make a point, Blaire sat in the other parallel to him, leaving five chair pairs between them. This was a pretty good distance.

While he set his plate down, he noticed a bottle, water pitcher, two wine glasses, and a regular cup by his dad’s area. The cup and glass were set to his left and right respectively. There was no mistaking the older man wanted Blaire to sit beside him, but he made no movement to join.

“Could you pass me one of those forks?” Blaire asked from across the table, seeing as his utensils were naturally beside the cups. Without humoring him, the other picked up the bottle and poured himself red wine. Once it reached halfway, he set it down and took his glass by the bottom of its stem, drinking calmly as he stared at his son from above the rim.

Blaire scoffed.

“Like a real connoisseur.”

He continued his long sip, and once he pulled his glass away, he uttered his boy’s name.

Blaire’s eyes flickered to the two seats around him again, before he grudgingly moved with his plate to sit on his left side.

It was important he was on his left side.

Today was not all other times.

Today, there would be an important guest. Blaire was warned of him two days ago, but he did forget, admittedly. One could imagine his disappointment to not find the take-out he anticipated, but it was for the best he came home when he did.

His dad hadn’t said anything when he arrived. He only told him that he had to set the dishes on the dining table. Instead, Blaire made his own plate, warmed it up, and here they were.

“I asked you to bring the food in here,” Blaire’s dad finally said, once his son situated himself and could reach his own silverware. Blaire paused after he stabbed his fork into a greenbean.

“Is he handicapped?” Blaire asked, before raising the vegetable to eat. He stopped again. “Are you handicapped?”

His dad’s eyes rolled slightly as he opened his mouth to sigh. Blaire continued eating his dinner, which was baked tilapia, mixed vegetables, and rice pilaf. There were other things, like rolls, a shrimp platter, and salad back at the counter. Hopefully his dad wouldn’t hold his breath waiting for him to set the table.

Before they could find out if he would, the doorbell rang.

Blaire glanced up from his plate when he heard chair legs scraping against the marble floor. He watched his dad disappear out of a different door than the archway, and then Blaire distantly heard him speaking with another man, whose voice was unfamiliar.

Since it wasn’t someone he knew… He quickly shoved whatever was on his fork into his mouth, then grabbed the wine bottle and tilted it straight up. It seemed like a good way to die.

In perfect timing, he sat back right as his dad returned, whose guest was barely visible from behind his shoulder.

“Is this your son, Richard?” the stranger asked, his voice more gravelly than he realized, and offered a smile toward Blaire. The man called Richard gave a curt smile himself.

Blaire’s gaze stayed focused on the new person. He didn’t even trust his smile. Creases formed at each corner of his mouth, and there were a number of liver spots about the different visible parts of skin. Most distinguishing was the man's fat mustache that curled thinly on both ends, its hairs a mix of browns, grays, and white. Certainly, he was older than his father. Would his reputation warrant the same respect?

In his peripheral view, Blaire could see his father’s eyes narrowing, and to pay respect, Blaire gave the guest a grin.

Food mixed with red wine spilled out from behind his teeth.

 

It was funny at the time. Blaire had almost spit the rest out while laughing at the taken aback look of the man, right beside his father’s rigid one. Instead, he was forced to shut his mouth, swallow, and let the latter man take over from there.

The mess he made was cleaned up. The aforementioned dishes were brought in by him after-all. Once Blaire set down the final bowl with rolls, the evening began.

Well, somewhat. Next, Blaire had to offer wine to his father and the guest. 

“My son was so hungry, he forgot his manners,” Richard said casually and was met with a deep chuckle from his friend.

“You can't be mad. He's a big boy, I see now!”

Before Richard could say anything, Blaire sneered in reply first.

“Now? This can't be the first time you've seen me.”

The man's laughter and smile faded.

“Blaire.”

Richard said his name plainly. No more was said as he watched his son serve the guest, who waved his hand and signaled his cut-off with a tight-lipped expression. Blaire tried not to ask if he were sure; the amount appeared more than he needed. Just a cute jab at his distinctive flush. A regular alcoholic of years, no doubt. Blaire had only been able to smile.

So many of his father's friends, or associates, if you would, would drink their evenings away, control their wives, and exert power in the public. If it weren't ‘and’, it was still ‘or’.

Richard certainly did not drink beyond socially. The man liked to keep as much awareness as he could.

Blaire envied it.

The mere look at a bottle reminded him of days he sat on floors and held one up like a trophy. How he flipped it upside down as if he had run a marathon and was parched. His hand quivered slightly just thinking about the way he would reflect on how snug liquor bottles felt in his palm, and worst of all, the genuine emotional relationship he had with alcohol.

The intensity in Blaire's resolve increased, but before the world could continue shaking more violently, it came to a complete halt.

His dad's hand touched the outside of his goblet, his thumb bent, ready to pick it up.

“That's fine,” he said eerily normally, while Blaire was certain he felt the trembles, certain he could tell he was nervous.

Blaire set the wine bottle down and easily filled his cup with water, before he sat finally.

It was hard to ignore his dad's smug smile.

Richard's voice was suave and firm, the kind that narrated childhood audiobooks. It had a rhythm to it, a perfect pitch and speed, that made it completely believable he spent hours of his day standing in a courtroom persuading others of a person's guilt.

It was more than sound, though. He was unprecedented in ways Blaire couldn't begin to explain.

Many could look to his reputation. A prosecutor by the age of nineteen in early 1993. Now, it was only mere months from his twenty-ninth anniversary of his first successful case. The one of many in a long, but on-going career that showed no flaws.

Early on, he was good, but not great. He had small tricks of manipulation that brought home the guilty verdict he vied for. However, in a short span of time, he perfected his trials like an art. It was rumored he could call how long a trial would take. The evidence, whether decisive or circumstantial, always convinced the jury. His trials never took more than three days, unless the state extended it for other reasons. None of his cases were ever ruled as mistrials or thrown.

Prosecutor Sinclair was a force to be reckoned with. The New York Police Department knew it, attorneys on both sides knew it, and criminals especially knew it.

They were big shoes for Blaire to fill. Fortunately for him, he had no interest in law, and was a mechanical engineering student at New York University. That wasn't to say he didn't have knowledge in the legal system, but he felt no pressure following up his dad's legacy… In that aspect.

There was a different obligation he had, however, that he was not keen to begin.

“So, Mr. Russo,” Richard started as he broke off an end of his fish filet with a fork. Blaire took note of his name as he ate. He kept his gaze subtle, but watchful.

“Oh, yes, yes,” the man named Mr. Russo answered. “Lorenzo Russo, founder and chairman of the Vineyard hotels.”

The lemon pepper seemed a bit much. Blaire knew it wasn't like his dad made the meal anyway, and just hired a chef to come in, as usual. More importantly, he noticed Mr. Russo was a proud man, open with his status and business. He saw how he beamed in a way that reeked of a reminder of importance.

Additionally, his need to give his full name told Blaire he was no familiar with his dad.

Richard gave a courteous smile once more, as if taking such bait.

“An extravagant chain it is.”

“We're expanding to each state,  _ and _ planning to go international.”

“Oh, really? Sounds like quite the investment.”

“Ho,” the man laughed shortly as he raised his wine glass. “We plan to finish by 2027.”

It was currently winter of 2021. A lot could happen in five years.

“Save me a share,” Richard said, before he was met with gruff noises. Was that more laughter?

“As if you need the money, you greedy dog,” Lorenzo replied, waving a finger his way. “Is it really only one you would want?”

“I am not that much of an investor, but you could save me the hassle by cutting me a royalty. Say, twenty percent?”

“Twenty percent!” the man choked, pounding the bottom of his wine glass on the table while guffawing more. Although Richard didn’t laugh with, he kept his expression warm.

Apart from the sound of glass clanging against glass, nothing annoyed Blaire more than the casualness these two men exchanged. They weren’t even business partners, let alone friends. The way they acted, as if they knew each other, as if they didn’t keep each other’s names in red, made his teeth grate from behind his lips.

He raised his cup of water above the table, debating between being petty by showing he was bothered by his theatrics, or being a good sport and just sipping casually. What he wouldn’t do to have some of the wine instead…

He chose the latter and dinner continued.

More information was drawn out about Mr. Russo, the past and future of the Vineyard chain, and his strong connections, that made him a real hotel mogul. However, there came a time near the end of the meal that redirected the conversation unexpectedly. At least unexpectedly to Blaire.

“So, Blaire,” Lorenzo started as he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. Blaire glanced up from his phone, which he had been reading under the table - miraculously away from his dad’s eyes, until now; the look he got quickly made him stow it away, missing a new text from Jayson - and he turned his full attention to Mr. Russo.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaire could see his dad leaning himself closer toward Lorenzo, but Blaire kept his vision straight, expression unreadable. He absorbed the man before him, not letting his eyes dart around like a laser.

Sauce, perhaps for the fish, coated a part of the man’s right sleeve, where his hand held a fork; crumbs could be seen in his facial hair. A complacent smile rested on his lips, while his eyes showed to be less wide than when he arrived. It was that contact he held onto as he spoke to him. If eyes were the windows to the soul, Blaire was certain he was looking through a one-way glass.

Lorenzo Russo was comfortable. Just too comfortable.

“Sup?” Blaire watched him set his fork down and lean back, making a grunting noise in contentedness. The chair creaked from under and behind his heavy weight. Lorenzo took a moment to fix his tie, which had become loose over the past hour. He then pulled his suit jacket (that was just a size too small) tighter toward the center of his chest.

“What do you do?”

Blaire didn’t move a muscle in his face, and he waited to see if his father would say anything for him. When a moment of silence passed, Blaire took a guileless approach.

“I’m an engineer student at NYU.”

It was a bit more vague than he intended.

“Engineering. That’s a sensible choice.”

“I was expecting something like, ‘Not going to be a lawyer?’”

“Haha! It was my next thing.”

“Sure. I bet you were going to be unique about it, too. Spice things up: ‘Not going to be a  _ defense _ attorney and spite your old man?’”

The man let out a small scoff, but he seemed less amused. Richard swooped in that time.

“Blaire’s a snide boy. He’s otherwise not hostile.”

Hostile? Was he a dog?

“I consider myself a stand-up guy,” he said easily, but Lorenzo waved a dismissive hand.

“No offense taken, gentlemen. I was only surprised. Stand-up is good.” Lorenzo then leaned forward, picking his glass up with a glint in his eyes. “If it’s true.”

Would a fuck you be considered hostile?

Once again, his father said nothing, so Blaire took the opportunity to reply as the man drank from what was his third glass of wine.

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be able to recognize it.”

“Blaire.”

“Just saying.”

Always had to be the one with the last word. If Lorenzo coughing on his wine didn’t count as words.

The Sinclairs waited for him to calm down, and Blaire briefly thought about his own fit just hours ago. Were Jayson and Brooke still out? Did they have a good time? He wished he stayed with them, despite the repercussions that would have followed.

His short conversation with Jayson had been telling him about a movie the two caught after eating at some rooftop fast casual restaurant. It was like back then. He almost said so, too.

Against his better judgment, he pulled it out to glance at again. He saw his contact name and notification bubble on his lockscreen. He flicked to unlock.

“Have you pit your son against me, Richard?”

“That would be a better excuse than this.”

“This won’t do. The next consignment comes in two months.”

Blaire felt his phone slip from his grip, falling between his legs on the chair.

“Next what?”

The thud it made caused both older men to look sternly at him, but he didn’t falter.

“What is he even good for, Richard? Just a student, engineering, no less. Will he fix the lights in the building? Hotwire a getaway van?”

The shift in attitude didn’t faze either Sinclair, but it was still a quick turn for the chummy dinner. Richard remained stone faced, only wishing this had come about more pragmatically. However, he never expected much from his son.

Just another learning experience tonight would be.

“There’s nothing I ever plan doing for you except maybe slashing your brakes,” Blaire said with promise. The glass Lorenzo held was slammed down, and Blaire straightened up with great alarm compared to his dad’s calm demeanor.

“Remove him - this should remain between us. You said he was smart, you said he was perfect for this.”

“Perfect for what?!” Blaire demanded, looking between the two expectantly. He felt anger surging through him, strengthened by the dumb feeling of confusion and obliviousness. When Lorenzo opened his mouth, Richard held up a hand toward him. The man looked obviously affronted, but before he could petulantly argue his right to control him, Richard spoke with authority and command.

“Enough.” Richard lowered his hand. “He  _ is _ smart. And he is wonderfully qualified for this type of work. It’s just his own attitude, as you see, that makes him a chance element. But his social skills are actually exceptional. His physical capabilities are astounding for his physique. And he will succeed me whether you like him or not, so I highly recommend choosing the former, unless you want to see every achievement you bragged about tonight unravel itself like a  _ ball of yarn. _ ”

A tense silence filled the air, where even Lorenzo’s breathy inhales and exhales were halted.

Neither returned each other’s stares: Richard looked intently at Lorenzo, who kept a liverish gaze on his son, Blaire, who was stuck gaping at his dad. He had been utterly caught off by his spiel that acknowledged parts of him he didn’t understand in the context. Who would break the silence first?

“... He doesn’t even seem on-board with this work,” Lorenzo finally said, tearing his gaze away to return to his glass of wine. Richard was then able to look between the two, but Blaire didn’t stop scanning his dad for answers.

“That’s because he’s not aware of the situation yet.”

“What situation? I’m not doing anything,” Blaire insisted defiantly. Lorenzo finished the wine in his glass before setting it down, clearly cautious. Took him long enough.

“It’s time you start building your connections and experience now, Blaire,” Richard said.

While anger was growing in Blaire, it was being quickly being overcome by a disgust. What did this man know? What was his father telling these people?

How long before it came back to him?

Did it ever leave him?

A shadow. It was a shadow that followed him around, and no amount of angling himself made it disappear.

And the normalcy he contested for?

_ “No,” _ he breathed, and he found himself standing up. When he tore his gaze away from his dad, he saw Lorenzo looking tickled to death. He wanted to smack that smile dancing on his wine-colored lips. He was sure he wanted to make some comment on their family or relationship, but he stayed quiet.

“Sit down.”

“What did you sign me up for?!”

“We need a middle-man. Who is capable of understanding every area of a map, of disabling systems with a,”  _ snap _ , “and with the inhumanity of a man like yourself.”

Spinning. His head was spinning.

What did he tell this man he was capable of?

How much did he know?

“Then who the fuck is this pedo-faced manbaby?” Blaire asked, extending an arm toward Lorenzo. The man’s sniggering halted.

“You think you can talk to me this way? Your father  _ needs _ me.”

“My father also needs Viagra to get off, do you think I give a fuck about his needs?”

Lorenzo pushed his seat back - well, more of the table - and also got to his feet.

“The deal is off, Sinclair, unless you find a different man for this job. I should have known you just wanted more power giving this responsibility to your son. Does anyone even know his name?”

“That was the point,” Richard said flatly, still not standing like the other two. "His name is fresh, like a breeze in the summer. And it's December." He had his two hands pressed together, making him look much more patient than he was feeling. He turned his gaze upon his son. “Mr. Russo offered to use his hotels as checkpoints.”

Checkpoints for what?

“Who else will get you your job done?” Lorenzo taunted, once again putting weighty importance on himself. Regardless of this dilemma his father was facing, he would close this deal for them both.

“You can tell Mr. Russo to  _ go fuck himself _ .”

The effect of his words blew up to a ear-deafening amount of angry threats from Lorenzo, and Blaire was sharp to shoot them back.

“Should I tell the police the chairman of the Vineyard hotels is doing illicit work behind closed doors?”

“You want your head on a platter, boy?” Lorenzo said, his double-chin shaking as he shouted across the table, spitbuds spewing out with. His drunkenness was a disgusting sight to behold, let alone have threatening him.

“So what are you smuggling? Drugs? You look like a fat-ass junkie, actually. Have you thought about undoing a button, it’s about to pop out and kill one of us-”

“I heard you’re able to kill a man, is that true?”

Although it was the man red in the face and blistering in anger, Blaire completely recoiled back at his refute. He opened his mouth and stammered out a no, but he was drowned out in that wheezing laugh.

“‘Not afraid to get blood on his hands,’ I was told. Richard?”

Blaire’s head snapped to his dad, eyes admittedly crazy as he searched for an answer. Richard lowered his arms. He set his left hand on the table and stowed his right hand into his suit jacket out of sight.

“What I told you was in confidence, Lorenzo. I asked you if you were desperate enough to be a part of something grand and lucrative. Greedily, and humanly, you swore your confidence and cooperation for such an opportunity. I told you I had four girls that needed to be transported from point A to point B, and I had heard you had hotels that could be used as checkpoints to achieve this. You said in exchange for the cut, you wanted the ring I was working with infiltrated and removed from the scene. Was this the deal?”

“Ho, you hadn’t told this to your-”

_ “Was this the deal or not?” _

Blaire was speechless.

Four girls… transported… Human trafficking?

“Yes,” Lorenzo finally answered plainly.

Blaire found himself reaching for his phone on his chair, having half the mind to call the police and just give this all up. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t live with--

“I have four girls that need to be transported, Blaire. And you’re going to help.”

“Like hell- get fucked- what are you?”

“The boy is thin-skinned. I am not the issue in this plan, Sinclair,” Lorenzo said irritably. He took a seat in his chair again. “The deal is off. No amount of money can make me work with this teenager. You worked too hard to make him marketable. I see now you’re not what they say.”

‘The deal is off.’ If Blaire had to pinpoint what made his father draw a gun out from under his coat jacket, it would be that.

He pointed it calmly at his guest.

“I confided with you about my son’s abilities. I made my terms transparent.”

“You cannot kill me, Sinclair…” Lorenzo murmured, looking seriously at his gun. His confidence was waning thin, and so was his father’s patience.

Blaire froze in his place, despite it not being pointed at him at all. He hated this.

He hated all of this.

He didn’t want this.

He didn’t even want Lorenzo Russo to meet an ill-fate, regardless of his attitude or involvement in whatever illegal activities they were planning.

“Dad-”

“I won’t breathe a word; consider it no harm, no foul-” were Lorenzo’s last words before a large bang went off.

A yell had tore itself from Blaire’s throat, but nothing else coherent came out. All he could see was red. The man had been fatally shot in the chest, and as his large body slumped more into the chair, eyes still wide and lips still red from wine, Blaire was sure he would throw-up.

Richard set the gun onto the table calmly. He looked at Blaire.

“Help me clean this up.”

It was a common phrase he used at the end of dinner for the dishes and plates.

Except now he meant the dead body in their dining room.

“You- don’t- I- isn’t- didn’t you- what will we do-”

“What will we do? About? The girls? There are more hotels in the city, you know. Like I said: you’re helping.”

  
  


Jayson Trevis had just settled into bed an hour ago, and he had finally begun dozing when his ringtone went off - Timebomb by Beck, not easy to sleep through. He wondered who could be calling him at this time. It was 2am, and he had gotten back home quarter past midnight after spending the evening with Brooke (weirdly enough, his ex-girlfriend, but nevermind that).

“H’lo,” he greeted tiredly, not even reading who the caller was.

“Hey. Let me in.”

“... Blaire?”

 

It took him a few moments. He wanted to ask him why he was there, but he told him to wait instead. He got out of bed quickly, abandoning the warmth of his quilt, and quietly snuck downstairs to let him in. He hoped he wouldn’t wake any of his family members. Especially his sister Victoria.

She was… a talkative thing. And nosy. And just, yeah, no.

He undid the locks and opened the door up, just to see Blaire standing there, a knapsack slung over his shoulder. Was this the same person he left on the sidewalk just hours ago?

Blaire looked… bad, to say the least. Paler than he had ever seen him, and the boy already had porcelain fair skin. He looked like he had just run a mile, despite it being so cold out. He couldn’t mistake the way his hair was matted to his forehead, and his eyes looked like…

“Blaire?” he breathed, just like on the phone.

He said nothing.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Still nothing.

Jayson had no choice but to just let him in. He locked the door up again and took him to his room, where he made space for him in the bed and a spot for him to set his things.

There was an uncomfortable silence from him, but Jayson couldn’t bring himself to pry more just yet.

When he settled into his bed with him, Jayson stayed sitting up. There was no way he could just sleep with this new arrangement and no answers.

“Dude, are you okay?”

Still nothing. Blaire laid on his side, staring out at the wall, his hands curled up together near his face as he breathed on them quietly.

He didn’t dare reach out and touch him, but he wanted to see his face better. He wanted to snap him out of this weird state. He wanted to know.

Was that a crime, was that selfish, to want to know?

It wasn’t the first time.

Jayson could remember many times he wanted to know what was going on with Blaire. What he thought about, what he hid.

Why he was so toxic to everyone except him?

Blaire wasn’t perfect to him. No, he couldn’t get over what he did to his relationship, nor the distance he would put between them when…

But compared to everyone else, it was different. He was different.

Jayson would be patient, though. He tried to get Blaire to calm down, at least. However, the more he asked if he were alright, the more he told him whatever happened, it would be okay, the worse he got. He would murmur in response, “no it’s not.” And what the hell did it mean?

Then, it came. Not tears. Not exactly. But the equivalent. The breakdown he never got to see. That he was sure no one got to see.

A string of confusing but vulnerable confessions.

‘This isn’t my choice.’

‘I don’t want to do this.’

‘I don’t want this.’

_ 'I’m sorry.' _

Jayson wasn’t even sure what to assume he was talking about. Was he being blackmailed? How? For what? To do what?

“Do you want to call the police?” Jayson offered, feeling helpless and alarmed. “Blaire, stop. You’re not making sense…”

Jayson rubbed the back of his neck with uncertainty. In a desperate and out-of-comfort gesture for even himself, he brought Blaire closer to give a consoling hug. To his surprise, he let him.

He let him move him closer, turn him from his side more, and hug him and hold him and say, ‘it’s going to be alright,’ even though Jayson had no idea what would be, and if it were true.

“What happened is happened, you need to stop saying sorry and, just calm down, first.”

“What happened is happened… What’s done is done.”

“What’s done is done.”

“It’s… over.”

Jayson wasn’t sure if echoing that were a good idea. It didn’t sound right.

“It’s done,” he tried again.

“Whatever I did, I did it.”

“Whatever…” Jayson trailed. “... Blaire, what did you do?”


End file.
